


A brush with disaster

by citron_ella



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Recovery, Trauma, dental hygene, flower kid is a cinnamon roll, hottake abuse is a cycle and supportive communities r necessary to break out of it, teethbrushing, toothbrush drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 21:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20767202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citron_ella/pseuds/citron_ella
Summary: Habit has left the Habitat, and Kamal has come back. With the help of the still-resident Flower Kid, he takes a big, minty-flavoured step in the direction of recovery.





	A brush with disaster

The toothbrush famine had ended, ever since Habit had gone away on forced sabbatical. It had been two weeks now, and the new toothbrush— provided by the new management— had gone unused that entire time. 

Kamal had placed it in the toothbrush-holder compartment in his laundry bag, in a sort of misguided optimism. He hadn’t even taken it out of the packaging, and it _ taunted _ him, there, every morning, noon and night, when he slipped it out of its compartment and saw the silhouette against the thin brown paper. A tube of toothpaste sat on the sink, beside the bar of soap his parents had sent in a care package. The silver seal was still unbroken.

It wasn’t like he did _ nothing. _ He’d taken to scrubbing the plaque off his teeth with a flannel, gargling with mouthwash, he even still _ flossed _. But the toothbrush itself was a step too far. 

He'd left the habitat. But then the balance had tipped back. Once again, the benefits outweighed the risks.

The first time around had been because Habit was the only source of a stable job he had any chance of keeping; the second, that was because the treatment they provided there genuinely helped. He still needed that help, frankly, and still wanted to get better. Which was a lot easier without Habit around, looming over his shoulder every waking minute. He'd even limped down from the roof, eventually— into the room where he slept now, as patient rather than staff. It had its own ensuite, the tiles patterned with little lotuses. The place had been redecorated with flower motifs; perhaps a nod to a certain someone. Kamal was just glad he didn't get the room with the lilies. 

It was that ensuite in which he now stood, staring into the bathroom mirror and trying not to remember. He looked very intently at his own pupils, turning the paper packet with his new toothbrush over and over in his hands. He could feel the little seam where the flap was sealed with envelope glue, slightly sticky beneath his fingertips. 

He worried about Habit. They'd been exchanging shallow letters. He was somewhere safer, now, getting better, too— but Kamal didn't know where, exactly. And the thought of that made his stomach turn. It stopped him from picking at the sealant on that paper packaging. He kept looking into the mirror, at the doorway to his room— there was nobody there. No figure standing guard. But something in him didn't quite know that; something kept expecting Habit. 

He remembered, against his will. 

Habit standing vigil, crowding into the little bathroom of their shared apartment, perching on the edge of the bathtub or squeezing between the shower and sink, _ watching. _

It had seemed like a nice gesture, at the time. 

The thing was, Kamal _ sucked _ at brushing his teeth, and he knew he sucked, so Habit watching him do so, and giving pointers? It was helpful! And so were the little pink tablets. 

Having gone through his usual rituals, he opened the medicine cabinet and selected one. They were his only memoir of Habit, but he couldn't reasonably stop now, and he had enough that rationing wasn't a concern yet. They were individually packaged, in little paper squares, like tiny candies. He unwrapped one, and began a rhythm that had grown familiar over time. Chew, swish-swish-swish, spit. Smile. 

They'd had a point system. He could picture it now, looking at the glaring neon in the mirror. 

Habit would be gentle— tilting his head up, only needing a few fingers to do so— And say those words. 

_ Darling, smile for me. _

Then the grading. Across a variety of systems and scales, frustratingly inconsistent— but never good. The best he'd gotten was a C-. Or possibly the -67%, on opposite day. 

Kamal studied his teeth and tongue, both stained neon pink. They looked like someone had ran a highlighter across most of his mouth; pointing out all of his problems. Had Habit still been there, Kamal would have been graded an F. Or a less-than-20%, or a Code Maroon. All indicators of failure, and Habit then would get disappointed and pat Kamal's head, and say _ try again _. Towards the end, Kamal would try again until his gums bled. 

On a good day. 

On a bad day… 

Kamal abruptly dropped the toothbrush, still unwrapped. Stuck his head in the sink, turned the tap on, desperately scooping the lukewarm water into his mouth. It wouldn't wash out the stain— that had to be brushed away— but he needed to be doing something other than looking at that pink, and remembering being _ made _ to. The thing was, he’d known. He’d known and he’d stayed, and he hadn’t helped enough. 

He accepted his fate. Crawled into his talking bed, with a mouth full of fake berry flavour and sickly nostalgia.

The next morning, there was an announcement on the TV, and for one horrible disorienting moment Kamal thought it was the puppet again, the blur of green onscreen indistinct without his contacts. But it was just a fruit— a honeydew melon, displayed as part of that morning's breakfast selection. Kamal used the remote to navigate towards his chosen foods— stuffed oat cheela and a black coffee, with a straw— then laid back in bed. He couldn't brave the stairs today for the continental breakfast. Anxiety made him hurt.

Room service was an interesting thing at the new habitat. Sometimes people helped out. So when Kamal opened his door— utterly disheveled, in mismatched pajamas and with his hair tangling its way out of a blue scrunchie— he was greeted by the Flower Kid. 

They were already perfectly dressed, in a crisp, short sleeved, button up shirt, patterned with golden sunflowers, and overalls. A matching sunflower headband had been determinedly wedged into the coily cloud of their hair. 

"Gmorning," Kamal mumbled. Flower Kid held out the tray, then paused. Carefully shifted the weight of it to one hand. And tapped their teeth. 

Kamal froze, suddenly much more awake. 

"Oh this?" he said, palms growing clammy. He grabbed for the tray anyway. People weren't supposed to _ know. _"It's nothing important. It just helps me… self-assess." 

Flower Kid frowned. Kamal tried to take the tray, and they didn't let go. 

"Assess?" Flower Kid said, a rare moment of verbal speech. They’d gotten tall enough to look Kamal in the eye at some point, and he could _ feel _ the scrutiny behind their neutral expression.

"It helps me to assess my smile, so I can work on improving it, please let me eat my breakfast," Kamal said, desperately, wrenching at the tray. The mug of coffee— they were finally trusting him with actual ceramic— sloshed, creating a dark lake on the lotus-patterned plastic. The straw was steel, reusable, and it rattled against the rim. Flower Kid frowned, and returned to the cart-pushing orderly. Got Kamal a new coffee, and some paper towels. 

And then made the world’s most universal gesture. 

_ I’m watching you _.

Kamal shuddered. 

Flower Kid sure had a way with people. It was like the exact opposite of torture— they had contagious, can-do enthusiasm, in a way that made it hard to stay sad. It _ wore _ at you, determination that relentless.

They weren’t cheerful the way Habit had been, either, not in the saccharine sense of a front for insecurity— they had genuine confidence. Kamal had first seen it almost two decades ago, when a teeny tiny Flower Kid (more of a flower baby, then) had cycled up to his parents’ house on a bright red bicycle, reached up to ring their doorbell, and delivered his mother roses for Valentines’ day. He’d been stunned by it. Kamal had been nine or ten then, and already nervous to the point of feeling nauseated by even the _ thought _of such a thing. The shock had stayed with him, long after Flower Kid and their training wheels had squeaked away into the distance. He’d reexperienced it every time he’d seen them around town since, growing out of a series of bikes and into the florists’ delivery van. Every time he’d wondered where they got the bravado. 

He ate in careful silence. Like maybe if he was quiet enough, Flower Kid would forget what they’d seen and abandon their mission. He didn’t want their green thumbs probing at that issue; whenever people did, it felt like they were peeling apart the wrinkles of his brain. 

Flower Kid joined him in what had been the home stretch of the meal, apparently finished with their deliveries for the day. They knocked, and Kamal let them in. 

Flower Kid ate mostly soft things— today it was oatmeal, which they sprinkled with brown sugar, and strawberries, sliced too small to possibly choke on. A glass of orange juice, and powdery thickener stirred in. They’d been talkative, as a child. But now they just sat down beside him, and shared the silence. Kamal was inclined to find such things awkward, but Flower Kid seemed perfectly comfortable in it, occasionally humming between bites of breakfast, signing languidly with their free hand. 

“W.H.A.T.S—W.R.O.N.G-” 

“Nothing!” Kamal cut in, ignoring the further fingerspelling. Flower Kid just rolled their eyes. 

“W.I.T.H—Y.O.U.R—S.M.I.L.E.” They cocked their head, raised their eyebrows, made it a question. Kamal felt stupid. He picked at the blanket beneath him, taking fuzzy little scraps from a pattern of running buffalo. 

"I'm...not very good with brushing my teeth," Kamal explained. "The pink stuff is plaque discloser. It shows where I've missed." 

Flower Kid ate the last of their oatmeal. Signed with both hands, now.

"But why don't you get rid of it, after?" 

"I've done really badly," Kamal answered, on instinct. Caught himself, then slipped again. "Really, really badly, actually. I still haven't used that new toothbrush yet. Cavities are only a natural consequence of actions like that." 

He remembered being spoken to about that. He'd lose the teeth if he didn't take care of them, and maybe that could be hurried up, because he clearly wasn't going to… 

"You need help?" Flower Kid nodded as they signed. The question was not a question. Kamal did. It was one of his qualifiers to leave, on the checklist in his head. He could leave— hopefully— when he was functioning again, and basic hygiene was a big part of that. 

“Maybe, but—” Flower Kid marched off midsentence into the bathroom, and brought the toothbrush out. The unopened toothpaste, too. 

They held it up, looking quizzical, then _ opened it _.

Kamal’s eyes went wide. The toothbrush that slid out into Flower Kid’s hand was a simple affair, murky blue-green plastic and white bristles. The type of thing that institutions bought in blank-boxed bulk; impersonal. 

When Kamal first came to the habit, the dollar-store toothbrush he brought had been his own. 

Flower Kid held the new one out, gave a one shouldered shrug of inquisition. Kamal grit his teeth. Braced himself as Flower Kid returned to the bathroom and ran the toothbrush under the tap. Ripped the foil off the toothpaste tube. 

When Kamal opened his eyes again, Flower Kid was _ right _ in his face, blinking expectantly at him and...waiting? 

“You can—” Kamal began, and then his mouth was too busy with the toothbrush to fit the end of the sentence. 

Habit had done this, sometimes. On bad days. 

But this was different. Flower Kid knelt on the floor in front of him, reached up with one careful hand to cup his face, make it easier on both of them. With Habit, it had _ hurt _. Even when Flower Kid was actively moving his head around— tilting this way or that, to get at the molars— it didn’t feel like being manhandled. Every muscle in Kamal’s body was wound tight, his hands balled into fists around fuzzy folds of the blanket. His heart was pounding, and sweat was beading on his face, mingling with the pink-tinged foam he could feel threatening to overspill his mouth.

Flower Kid held up their empty breakfast bowl, and Kamal was apparently well-trained, because muscle memory alone had him spit. 

He looked at Flower Kid, in the interest of not looking at the bathroom door. Their tongue was poking out of their mouth, in an expression of careful concentration. They were focused on the task at hand, but they’d occasionally glance up at Kamal, their eyes warm, and offer an imperfect smile in reassurance.

At some point in the two-minute window, with Flower Kid’s slender fingers warm on his face, he stopped waiting for it to hurt. 

When at last it was over, Flower Kid held out their very own store-brand water bottle, puffed their pudgy cheeks in a mime of swishing a mouthful. His whole body shaking with relief, Kamal rinsed. 

He was exhausted. But it hadn’t hurt. 

“Thank you,” he said, when he’d found words again. Flower Kid grinned, rocking backwards into a squat and then onto their feet. 

“No problem!” they signed, gestures sprawling wide with the joy of it.

There was a weird sort of liberation, and that evening, after dinner, Kamal faced the mirror once more. He’d spent the day up on the roof again, in an attempt at regaining some of his shaky confidence in the act. 

It hadn’t really worked. 

Kamal turned the cold tap on. Ran the toothbrush under it, his breath catching in his throat. It was such a simple ritual, and even that was a struggle— something he’d learned to do when he was a toddler. His hands were shaking, and a fat blob of far too much toothpaste wriggled out of the tube in response. He crammed the brush into his mouth anyway, before he could lose his nerve. 

It would be fine. It would be fine. It would be _ fine _. 

This was progress, really, he was holding the thing and _ trying _, and wasn’t that better than nothing? He scrubbed furiously, hungry for the moment it was over; for the moment the bristles stopped scraping away at his gums and he could bury himself in blankets and pretend he’d never been all that afraid to begin with. 

But then.

He knew he didn’t _ hear _it. Didn’t think he did. The memory of hearing it was enough. 

It had been a bad day. 

_ That’ll damage your enamel. _

Kamal had been having a bad day, too. 

_ What did your poor teeth ever do to you? _

In the present, he choked on foam, coughing, his eyes watering as he fell. Back and away from himself, back in time; everything a sharp contradiction to the cool tile beneath his feet, the warm light his reflection was cast in. Experience insisted that he should have been feeling carpet.

The toothbrush clattered into the sink. Kamal was overcome with the urge to get _ out _— and he did, sprinting from the bathroom, through his door, stumbling up the stairs to the roof, to the cage-like structure on the terrace, to put distance and iron bars between himself and— 

And—

It was the farthest point in the habitat from Habit’s office. From the suite of rooms above which he used to live. 

The cool night air was the first thing that came back to him, the roof deserted now that the sun had set. It was too cold to be up there in thin pajamas and no shoes, but Kamal wasn’t ready to go down quite yet. 

In Habit’s office, the lights were off. Nobody there, now. 

By the time Kamal could see the deserted building for what it was— by the time he could breathe again; by the time the damp night air had sunk into his clothes and he’d begun to smell of the outdoors— the toothpaste had dried on his lips and chin, left chalky little stains on his pajama collar. 

It hadn’t worked. 

He picked his way downstairs, and picked out a little pink tablet. 

The next morning, Flower Kid brushed his teeth again. But he couldn’t be content with that, because of _ course _he couldn’t; Kamal’s perfectionism had gotten him into this mess in the first place. He just had to ask. He looked at Flower Kid— who was as always a ray of sunshine, wearing forget-me-nots today. And he said— 

“In— there’s— in the medicine cabinet, there’s these discloser tablets.” it felt like a sickening betrayal, but he couldn’t live with the itch in his brain if he didn’t. Kamal tugged the ends of his hair. “They’re pink? Could you…” 

Flower Kid stood. _ Loomed _. 

“I can give you a number.” they signed, slowly. 

Kamal smiled, in the way he always had for Habit. 

“Hmmmmm…” Flower Kid couldn’t actually make the noise, so they just did a dramatic extension of the signs. The H was formed once, then the M, which stayed and crossed the whole field of Kamal’s vision. 

“Six out of ten,” they finally decided. Kamal felt his chest go tight; as though his ribs had snapped shut like a bear trap. “You don’t get more points ‘cause it’s not very happy.” 

The distress whooshed out of him on the weak breeze of a laugh. Of course. Flower Kid wouldn’t do something like that. Flower Kid was _ nice _about your failures. They were really, really good at this. 

“See?” the sign was almost violent, as Flower Kid grabbed their camera from around their neck and took a hurried picture. Showed him its little image in the viewfinder. 

It wasn’t a pretty smile, more of a shaky grin. The way people smiled while they were caught off guard.

In American Sign Language, the sign for _ ten _ looked just like a thumbs-up, and Flower Kid made it with both hands, a rhythm. Ten- _ outof _ -ten, ten _ -outof- _ten. They did a little jig as they waved their hands for even more emphasis. Kamal couldn’t help but giggle. Flower Kid seemed finally satisfied by that, smiling wide, showing the gap between their front teeth. It certainly wasn’t orthodontically perfect, but it was a lovely smile all the same. 

It had been a very, very long time since Kamal had heard himself laugh. 

That evening, a gift came with his meal. 

Kamal waited until after dinner to open it. It was in a slim blue box, a bit too big for a fancy pen. He had to wonder what it was, because it wasn’t _ signed _— there was no notecard, nothing that indicated who it was from. 

Or if it was from Habit. 

Kamal was going to meet him again, someday. Maybe. He’d been reading about things like this, against the advice of his therapist. 

He opened the box very carefully, and was met with crepe paper, which he opened even _ more _ carefully, because if it was from Habit, there was a non-zero chance that it might contain teeth, or shards thereof. Teeth were a reward, sometimes, and according to his letters, Kamal was doing well. 

He peeled back a layer of the paper. It crinkled between his fingers, the colour of champagne. Inside, there was a long, plastic case. When Kamal shook it, it made the _ clunk _ of a solid object sliding around, not the rattle of assorted incisors he’d gotten alarmingly used to. It took him a minute to work out how it opened— it needed to be twisted, before it popped into two rather obvious halves. 

Inside was an electric toothbrush. It was a thing of beauty— Kamal had gone through a _ phase _ about them before he’d gone crashing out of dentistry school— one of the higher end models, with bluetooth app functions and everything. It even came with a spare head. The notecard was tucked into the wrapping in the box, by the charger and charging station— it had nothing written on it, but he recognised the little slip of paper. It was the kind that had come with his mother’s bouquets.

That evening was the first time in over a year that Kamal Bora had successfully and stresslessly brushed his own teeth. Not in the bathroom— not quite yet. There were still traces there, in the idea of bathrooms he held in his head. Until that idea was gone, _ that _bathroom was every bathroom. But this was progress, even staring out the window at the starry sky, hiding in the dark. The new toothbrush was a different beast altogether; a different shape and weight, different by miles. There was still that cliff-edge feeling, even now, as if he were balanced on a precipice, but this time, he didn’t fall. There was no trace of Habit in the buzz. 

Two weeks later, he got rid of the disclosing tablets. They dissolved from the world when the dumpster got knocked over, and they melted through their packaging in rain. The ground behind the habitat was left strewn with pink-stained paper, like fallen cherry blossoms. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me for fic updates and headcanons [here!](https://citron-ella.tumblr.com/)


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